


Sugar Candy

by immistermercury



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (jim is 16), Drawing, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, absolutely no smut fred is 14, almost violence but not, art student! fred, boarding school boys, freddie is in need of confidence, jim is in need of reform, mentions of bullying, music student! jim, something new?, surreptitious portrait drawing, they're both new to london, this is CLASSIC what's not to love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immistermercury/pseuds/immistermercury
Summary: The boy sat himself down under the old oak, after checking over his shoulder once, twice, three times, that he hadn’t been followed. He opened the portfolio and pulled out a sketchbook, gracefully laying it over his knees; he followed it with a case of pencils, carefully inspecting each one to choose the right one-hard or soft? dark or light? smudged or neat?Jim let his eyes wander, lazily watching a football match on the other side of the grounds with only half his mind interested-But he whirled his head around when he felt eyes looking at him, studying him, staring at him.
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 37
Kudos: 43





	1. Spring Buttercups

**Author's Note:**

> I have wanted to publish this for SO LONG but I've been waiting until I had the time to upload chapters consistently for you! I love my boarding school boys (remember Vignettes?) and I hope you're all as excited about a classic friends to lovers fic as I am ☺️ ☺️

It had been three weeks since he’d been left on the doorstep of the English boarding school, sixteen, hardened by the strap at his old school, never fearing the cane across his backside when the skin had been toughened from the years of abuse. Unruly, they labelled him, uncontrollable: fists stronger than his brain, a wicked, cruel tongue, a mouth only good for causing misery.

They didn’t seem to realise that treating him as the brute would make him the brute.

He’d been teased, relentless, for his voice, the way he walked, the softness of his hands; they’d bullied him for smiling, for being open, trusting, willing to love. They’d mocked him until he’d learned to fight back, until his voice had dropped, until his knuckles hardened from practicing punching his bedroom wall- he stopped loving, he stopped trusting, and he spat all the same at those boys who wouldn’t change like he had.

He’d thought it would earn him respect- he was sure that as his grades fell, and his arms grew, he’d be admired and feared by others. It had been that way until suddenly, abruptly, he’d been pulled from the school he’d built himself up in, the Irish day school that had taught him more brawl than brains- maybe it had been the fight, maybe it had been the crunch of the boy’s nose under his fist, the threat that if he ever,  _ ever,  _ called him that name again then he’d tear him limb from limb in that very yard, because he was not, and he’d never be-

_ Gay. _

Jim scuffed his shoe in the grass, feeling isolated and lonely, the sun only making his headache worse. He’d assumed that the order would be the same in every school, but here- here no one cared about him, no one teased him, but no one spoke to him, and he felt more alone in the middle of London than he ever had in a tiny little village on the outskirts of County Carlow. The boys knew each other, and they’d known each other for years: they’d played rugby together, football, some had danced in the same shows, others had learned the piano together and played long into the nights. 

Jim would sit in his room and he’d listen as boys walked from room to room, laughing, shouting, playing piano and guitar and violin, dancing down corridors, mumbling curse words when one spilled Coca-Cola down another’s freshly pressed cricket shirt. They’d smuggle bottles of Vodka on Saturday nights and they’d drink shots and tell lewd stories about the girls in the boarding house over the road, posh pretty princesses who could do the most wicked things with soft fingertips when the lights were turned off. 

He was the only person who didn’t have a friend.

He was the one sent there for  _ correction,  _ the broken one, damaged property. He was the one who didn’t know how to throw a ball, he was the one that had never learned the violin, he was the one that had never learned to dance or sing. They weren’t interested in him- they weren’t interested in hearing him on the piano, because they had a thousand other pianists, and he sure as hell that he wasn’t about to beg for his go on the Fazioli. 

He sat down against the wall of the school building and stretched his legs out in the sun, sighing to himself. He picked at each of his nails in turn, willing time to go faster - it crawled so slowly, and all he wanted was for three months to pass so he could be back home and winding up his younger brother once again. He missed everything about Ireland- he liked speaking in Irish, he liked living rural, he didn’t like the fact that sirens and helicopters woke him up every night, made him feel like a little kid again-

He looked up as a boy walked past him, clutching a portfolio to his chest; he nearly tripped over Jim’s feet and issued a series of hasty apologies, his cheeks scarlet. He looked like the kind of runt that Jim would’ve mocked mercilessly - he was wearing platforms, for Christ’s sake, and his t-shirt barely covered his stomach - but something in him found him intriguing. He was new, he was sure, he would’ve noticed that face before - and he was alone. 

The boy sat himself down under the old oak, after checking over his shoulder once, twice, three times, that he hadn’t been followed. He opened the portfolio and pulled out a sketchbook, gracefully laying it over his knees; he followed it with a case of pencils, carefully inspecting each one to choose the right one-  _ hard or soft? dark or light? smudged or neat? _

Jim let his eyes wander, lazily watching a football match on the other side of the grounds with only half his mind interested-

But he whirled his head around when he felt eyes looking at him, studying him, staring at him. He met eyes with the boy for a moment, narrowing his eyes when he looked away quickly, his cheeks burning red.

He felt in his pockets for the half-empty packet of Spangles he’d sequestered away earlier, a burst of lemon exploding across his tongue. He lolled his head back and closed his eyes, sucking slowly, savouring the taste of home-

When he opened his eyes, the boy was staring again.

Jim felt adrenaline pulse in his veins as he stood up, smirking at the look of fear on the boy’s face when he walked in his direction. He hadn’t had a good confrontation in so long, and it had been too long since he’d felt that familiar ache through his knuckles that accompanied the hot trickle of blood through his fingers. The boy was just the right size, too, small enough to hit the floor with a satisfying thud, big enough to not break anything on the way down-

The boy squeaked as he brought his fist back, a jumble of apologetic words escaping his lips, unsure of himself, unconfident, oh-so-frightened-

And Jim stopped.

Because the boy’s lower lip was bruised, and in his haste he’d dropped his sketchbook. In the sketchbook was a fledgling portrait of Jim: the curve of his jawline was drawn so gently in the lightest, neatest pencil, and he’d started to place each of the features of his face with the most precision and care he’d ever seen. He’d shaded the background, blurring out the world around him, as though Jim was the only thing he was interested in in the whole world.

He leaned down and picked up the sketchbook. “Did you do this?” He asked to break the silence, to silence the sound of the boy’s frightened crying.

The boy wrapped his arms around himself and nodded, afraid that his sketchbook was about to be torn page from page when those sketches were all the pictures he had to remind him of his mother and father, his sister, five thousand miles away and missing him terribly. “I like to draw.” He whispered.

Jim looked at his pencils, strewn over the ground; instead of stamping on them as he once would’ve done, listening to the delighted laughter of people he’d been able to call his friends, he crouched down and picked all of them up, handing them back to the boy. “Why draw me?” He asked, passing over his sketchbook after he’d looked over the portrait once more. 

“You were there.” He replied shakily, wiping tears from his cheeks and hastily hugging the book back against his chest. 

“I hoped it would be a slightly more interesting reason.” Jim leaned against the trunk of the tree, taking a moment to survey the boy in front of him. He was young- fifteen, Jim considered, there or thereabouts. He wasn’t beautiful: his teeth stuck out, his lips were too full, his brow was too set. He wouldn’t make it as a model any time soon, and he was bony to be one of those dancer types that Jim eyed up with jealousy- but his talent was in his fingers, his nails painted black, his ring finger smudged dark with soft pencil.

“I’m drawing a portfolio.” He murmured, and Jim caught a hint of something in his accent. An English school, perhaps, somewhere foreign; Bangladesh or Brunei, Singapore, Namibia - he’d heard those voices before. “It’s- it’s observational. For my art class.” The boy had never looked up, had never met his eyes, and Jim wondered for a moment what colour his eyes were. 

“Well, you’re never going to observe me if you don’t look at me.” Jim crossed his arms and looked him up and down. He was a weak little thing, he’d never be an impressive friend to have, but Jim could see that he’d maybe do as a friend until somebody better came along-

And then their eyes met - his eyes the most beautiful baby green, the softest, the most gentle - and Jim could suddenly understand why people called boys pretty.


	2. Concerto No. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't stay distant - he doesn't want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Return to classic poetical Lily!

“Are you-” The boy stood in the doorway to his room, clutching a backpack in his hand. “Are you Jim?”

“Why?” He asked, looking up from his book.

“I think I’m sharing your room.” He replied quietly, glancing at the spare bed that was piled high with underwear, crisp bags, and textbooks that were all tattered around the edges. “I mean, I might be wrong, if you’re- if you’re not Jim, I’m in the wrong room-”

“No, you’re in the right room.” He followed the boy’s eyes and felt momentarily ashamed of the state of his room- he could only imagine how messy that bed would be, how many crumbs he’d be tossing and turning in all night. Those eyes met his again - those eyes, Jim could tell, that would become his weakness - and his resolve crumbled.

He really wanted a friend. 

“I’ll help you clean up.” Jim offered a slight smile, the muscles in his face feeling heavy, as though he hadn’t smiled at anybody since he’d left his mother all those weeks ago. “Sorry, I- I’m not the most houseproud.”

The boy seemed to relax a little, leaving his bag at the door as he came further into his room. He’d been afraid that he’d be turned out and he’d have to sleep on the floor of the hallway, too embarrassed and too unsure of himself to know who to go to - to be accepted into the room helped him feel a little less like an outcast. “Thank you.” He offered a sweet smile. “Would you like to do your clothes?”

Jim coloured a little and he scowled down at his hands. “I’ll do the other stuff.” He mumbled. “I can’t fold clothes.”

“Oh, I can!” He brightened. “I’ve a job down at the market. I spend half my life folding clothes.” He took a t-shirt from the spare bed and deftly folded it, his movements quick and precise, and laid it down on his desk chair.

“Where did you learn to do that?” He asked, softening a little. The boy wasn’t trying to embarrass him, to show him that he was stupid; his earnest expression showed him that he was trying his best to get on well with him. 

“My Mama.” He said softly, his voice a little wistful. “And my friend Mary, she works for Biba.”

He had efficiently folded almost all of Jim’s clothes by the time he’d stacked all of his textbooks up on the side of his desk; Jim found himself watching his fingers again, his talented fingers-

“What’s your name?” Jim asked abruptly. 

“My name?” He replied, holding a ball of socks in his hands. “Farrokh.”

“What?” Jim arched an eyebrow. 

“Farrokh.” He replied, a little more shy. “It means ‘happy’ in Persian.”

“Does everyone call you that?” He asked, aware he was being a little rude. 

“My friends call me Freddie.” He mumbled.

“Freddie.” He nodded. “Yeah, I can pronounce that one without butchering it. Freddie.”

“Freddie Bulsara.” He said a little more confidently.

“Did you live in- in- Persia before?” Jim asked, wincing at the sound of his own voice.

“I was born in Zanzibar. I lived in India before I moved here.” He explained. “Persia doesn’t exist anymore.”

Jim watched as he cleaned off the rest of the bed and pulled off the sheets, wincing when his hands came back covered in crumbs. “So why did you come here?” He asked, crossing his legs. He liked the feeling of letting his guard down; he liked the fact that Freddie seemed to be interested in talking to him. 

“My parents are moving soon, and so they thought that I should come first. Start the term here.” He tried for his bravest smile, but Jim could see that he missed them dearly. “They’ll be here- they’ll come- eventually.”

“You must miss them.” He said gently. “How old are you?”

“I’m fourteen.” He pulled the new covers onto the duvet and smiled at the look of the fresh bed waiting for him. “I went to boarding school in India. I just- I used to go home at the weekends, and I’m not sure what to do this weekend.” He admitted.

“Have you been to London before?” He asked curiously.

“No.” He sat on his bed and reached for his bag, pulling out a blanket to lay over his pillow. He seemed not to think about it until he looked up and saw Jim staring; his cheeks flushed and he scrambled for words. “It’s just a- it’s a comfort thing, just while I get settled in, I- please don’t tell anybody.” He whispered.

Once upon a time, he would’ve bullied him ruthlessly for having such a thing, but one glance of those eyes and Jim couldn’t even consider teasing him. “I won’t.” He promised, his voice sincere. “I could- we could go and do some sightseeing, if you want? I’ve been to London before, I can teach you how the Underground works.”

“Are you allowed to go off site?” Freddie asked shyly. “I think I might be too young, apart from the job.”

He definitely wasn’t- he was supposed to be under a watchful eye at every moment of every day. “No.” He grinned. “We can go to Harrods, if you want. We can go to Regent’s Park.”

“I’ve always wanted to go in the bathing lake in the Serpentine.” Freddie replied shyly.

“We can do that. It’s May, it’s warm enough outside.” Jim grinned at the idea of suddenly having a friend to explore London with, somebody he could lead just a little astray. Freddie could do with some confidence, Jim reasoned, a willingness to break the rules; maybe Freddie could help to calm him down, soften him a little. 

“But we can’t go out.” Freddie murmured.

“Between eleven and four, everyone is expected in church, but they don’t do any kind of register. There’s no one doing any rounds of the grounds, and there’s a gap in one of the fences out behind the rugby pitches. It’s a fair walk, but we could do it.” Jim grinned.

A sense of excitement shot through Freddie and he smiled back, lopsided and warm. “Where’s the nearest tube station?”

“Colindale. Northern line to King’s Cross, then change and get on the Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner.” He repeated proudly, smirking when Freddie’s eyes went wide.

“How do you know that?” He asked, looking so little and so impressed. 

“I learned the tube map before I came. And the Thameslink, and the Overground, and TFL Rail. Just in case I needed to get somewhere in a hurry and I didn’t have time to stand and look at the maps to figure out where I was going.” He shrugged. “You learn these things.”

“That’s incredible.” Freddie’s smile was toothy as he sat cross-legged on his bed, slipping off his shoes and lining them up neatly at the foot of his bed. “You must’ve been here a long time.”

“Three weeks.” He chuckled; he was growing to like Freddie, his sweet naivety, his openness. It was endearing, he considered: he wasn’t battle-hardened like the rest of them.

“Three weeks?” He gasped. “But you- you know everything!”

He smirked and crossed his ankles, leaning back against his pillows. “That’s life, sweetheart.”

* * *

The water droplets streaked down his arms, down his chest, light and silky; he chased them with coarse cotton, barely getting dry before he tugged his t-shirt back over his head. It was late in the evening, gone ten, the only time he could trust the dorm showers to be empty, the only time he could trust that he’d be definitely alone. The lounge was loud that night, piano furious, seeming to drain the energy from any other part of the building. It drained people, their lives, their breath, from the bedrooms; vodka bottles were left untouched beneath pillows; it concentrated everything in that one room, clustered around the little Fazioli as one boy made it sing.

It was electric. He walked, almost unconscious of his own steps, listening, wishing, desiring: every note was cacophonous in his head, thunder, seeming to thrum through him like his very blood. He would, on occasion, listen to a pretty -  _ not pretty, talented  _ \- boy as notes flowed from between his very fingertips, boys from his music classes, boys who could play harp and violin and piano as well as they could breathe and stand and walk.

Never before had he felt so compelled to listen that he forgot to tie the drawstring on his trousers. 

There wasn’t a hair on his body that lay flat as he listened to the music swell; there wasn’t a twitch of violence in any of his muscles as he was shoved out of the doorway and further into the room, into society, into himself-

Because the boy, the boy with the baby green eyes and the dainty fingers made of bird bones, he could make music.

He found himself leaning on other boys just to get closer, just to be swallowed whole by a sound that seemed to have been torn from his very core, notes he could’ve made if he hadn’t let the world derail him with cruel taunts and crueler fists. He might not be brains, but he didn’t have to be brawl, either- he could be beauty, just like the boy was beauty, was beauty from the toes that pressed the pedals to make the music wash over him to the parted lips that tilted backwards when he pressed the keys just right, just right, just right.

Jim wanted to protect him: no bastard would ever kill the beauty in those fingers as long as he stood in his way, no one would stamp his hands black and blue until he was crying, no one would ever teach him how to throw a punch. He didn’t need that, didn’t need any of it: all he needed was those delicate fingers protected.

* * *

It was three o’clock in the morning, maybe four o’clock, and Jim was shaking: the helicopters were circling again, circling low. They were searching for someone, he was sure, searching for someone who had to be the miles of their grounds, someone who could burst in through the door and hurt him, someone who would have iron fists and iron toes that could break the bird bones that were the greatest happiest he’d felt since his own were smashed to pieces and melted back together as solid steel. 

Maybe they were searching for him - the idea seized him with terror and steel fingers came up to grab his throat, grabbing it hard, making him feel it. He couldn’t be trusted, it could’ve been in his sleep, he could’ve destroyed those fingers himself because of the unbearable rise of jealousy, the realisation of all the years he’d wasted to loneliness and fighting and choking on his own emotions-

“Jim?”

The baby green eyes, oh-so-concerned, were still there; they sparkled in the low light of the dormitory room, caught in a sharp beam of moonlight that he hadn’t dared to complain about. He shifted a little, the fresh sheets crackling around his waist, and Jim saw his fingers in the moonlight - lithe, soft, agile. “Jim, are you okay?”

The resulting sound was somewhere between a sob and a cough, and had Freddie climbing out of his bed to breach the miles between them. He looked so fucking young, he thought, his hair  _ softbedmessy,  _ his skin  _ pillowfreshcreased,  _ the shirt on him his father’s, too big and yet smelling of home-

Would he ever know what home felt like again?

The bed barely dipped as he sat down, gently winding his arms around his new friend as though he was soothing his sister from another nightmare. He was so small, Jim thought as his arms went around him instinctively - he wondered how he wasn’t frightened of the world, of finding his place in it, when he was fourteen and he seemed to be better with dealing with separation than Jim would ever be.

“What’s the matter?” He asked, voice so gentle, as he carefully brushed hair from tear-sodden cheeks. 

Everything, he wanted to reply, absolutely everything: wasted years, brutality, the scars across his backside and the fresh hiding across his back from another misdemeanour; the yearning to be good, to be good, to be good; the pretty boy with the baby green eyes that was threatening everything he’d told himself was wrong and sick and never true, what would send him to Hell, what would be worse than any pickpocketing or talking back or fights he’d ever been in-

“Is it the helicopter?” Freddie whispered, and all he could do was nod.

“Oh, darling.” Freddie soothed, resting his cheek against his head, and Jim couldn’t explain why it made him feel so safe: he hadn’t been treated as a child in years, only some undergrown adult beast destined for drugs or county-lines gangs or maybe both. His mind always fought between sixteen and sixteen; sixteen, the adult, the independent one, the brave one, and sixteen, the little scared child. “Let me just-”

Freddie knelt up on his bed and pulled the window shut, muffling the sound, and Jim’s breath came a little easier. 

“I’m sorry.” He finally found words, apologetic, embarrassed. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Freddie sat back down on Jim’s bed and rested his head against his shoulder, trying to be soothing without taking up too much of his space, his freedom, his independence. “We all have strange fears of noises. If a fire alarm started sounding right now, I’d probably burst into tears.” He smiled crookedly, barely visible in their dark bedroom. “And don’t get me started on the bathrooms, I can barely cope with how dark they are.”

His feelings were a conflicted mess, trying to straighten out everything he felt guilty about, but he added it to the list of things to protect Freddie from - dark bathrooms and loud sirens. He seemed almost ethereal, Jim considered, as though something too loud would shatter the very material of his existence, as though without light, he couldn’t recharge the indefatigable shine that he painted everything he touched with.

“They’re strange fears.” He croaked eventually, and Freddie elbowed him with a laugh.

“Being scared of helicopters is hardly normal.” He teased, giggling. They sat together in companionable quiet for a few moments as Jim’s breath steadied, and Freddie finally turned to look at him again. “Why did you nearly punch me earlier?”

“I-” The wave of guilt rose in him again and he looked at Freddie’s sketchbook, left nearly on a table in the corner.  _ I was raised that way.  _ “I don’t know. I thought it’d be like- a caricature, or something.” He shrugged. “A punch is practically a greeting where I’m from.”

“That’s strange.” Freddie laughed, but shrugged it off, and Jim wondered if he knew more than he let on, or if he really was so naïve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's actually so wild writing this also the baby green eyes thing? I have no idea where it comes from I just love the actual aesthetics of it so I wanted to share my strange passion with you all!


	3. Weals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks they have something; it shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe he's reacting, maybe it's maybelline™️

“How can you eat this?” Freddie pushed his plate away, barely touched, and scowled down at his hands. “It’s so bland.”

Jim shrugged, putting another piece of pasta in his mouth; he was riding high that day, still so secretly thrilled that Freddie had chosen to sit with him in their classes, had chosen to eat with him despite eager waving from the other side of the room. “It’s only pasta.”

“It’s not only pasta. Pasta is delightful with the right sauce.” He pointed his empty fork at Jim, and Jim couldn’t hide his grin: this boy had opinions on the strangest of subjects. “This is pasta that has been smothered in sauce that tastes like water.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad.” He argued. “Come on, you can eat more than that.”

“I don’t want to.” He pouted. “Do they do dessert? I want something sweet.”

“Rum and raisin pudding, I think.” He chuckled; of course the sweet boy would want to run off sugar.

“Oh, fuck raisins.” He huffed, resting his chin on both hands, clearly sulking. “I’m hungry.” He whined a few moments later.

“Wait here-” Jim stood up, abandoning his own half-eaten plate. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Freddie watched him leave the dining room, watched the way he moved across the room; his very being seemed to dominate the space, commanding respect. His first few days had been strange, bouncing between different groups of people, the musical boys and the arty boys and the boys in his boxing classes - but his roommate stayed the same. He was a comforting presence, somehow, now that he’d warmed up a little; the time they spent together in the evenings, even when they were quiet, had made them a little closer.

Jim couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face as he saw the widening of Freddie’s eyes. He was holding two plates in his hands, two plates piled high with rocky road and topped with cream. “And before you ask-” Jim started, placing a plate down in front of Freddie. “There’s chocolate, there’s digestive biscuits, there’s marshmallows, there’s syrup, there’s nuts, but there’s no dried fruit.”

“Where did you get these?” He asked, amazed, immediately grabbing his spoon. 

“They’re tomorrow’s dessert. Sometimes they prepare some the day before in case anyone is allergic to an ingredient in today’s pudding. I told them we were both allergic to raisins.” He grinned as he watched Freddie’s eyes flutter a little as he took a mouthful. “Good?”

“Heavenly.” Freddie murmured. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I wasn’t about to let you starve.” He chuckled. “I mean, there are vending machines, too. You can buy cookies and chocolate bars.”

“I love my sweets.” Freddie smiled. “Sugar, candy, anything.”

“Sugar candy. That would be a good nickname for you.” Jim laughed. “You’ve got to get your daily fix.”

“On the days that I hated the food at school, they’d let me have two lots of the pudding. They used to make the most incredible malido, I could sit and eat plate after plate of it. My Mama would send me food packages of it on the weeks that it wasn’t on the menu.” He grinned back at Jim, cheeks a little pink.

“What’s malido?” He asked curiously, carefully taking a spoonful from his plate and holding the spoon out for Freddie.

He was a little taken aback by his sudden spur of generosity, but Freddie happily ate the spoonful with only a teasingly raised eyebrow. “It’s made out of leftover rotis. You crumble them up and fry them with sugar and almonds and cashews and cherries and orange peel and vanilla. My Mama made it when we were small because the ghee is supposed to stop you from catching colds during the winter.”

“Oh, that sounds so sweet.” He puckered his lips playfully. “My Mum was never into cooking. She’d buy biscuits for us, but that was as far as she went.”

“Our household was very traditional.” Freddie shrugged. “My parents are very religious. Pa works in government, and Mama looks after the home, so she’s always cooking. They tried to teach my sister and I to be the same, but I don’t know how successful they were.” He chuckled.

“Are you not into tradition?” He questioned.

“I mean, if any women are looking for poor artist husbands, maybe I’ll be in luck.” He laughed. “Or maybe I’ll be some poor loner for the rest of my life, sketching people’s portraits in cafes. No, I don’t think my father would ever let me do that. He wants me to be a businessman, and if that fails, I should be a boxer.”

“A boxer?” Jim arched an eyebrow. “You’d fall over if somebody hit you.”

“Hey!” Freddie pouted. “I can throw a good punch.”

“I don’t think I’d want to watch somebody attack you. I’d probably break their arms if they went near you with a fist raised.” Jim blurted out, and then his cheeks flushed red. “I mean, you know, I’m trying to not be so violent these days, I feel like everyone should do the same.”

“Who are you, my guardian?” Freddie arched an eyebrow playfully. “I’ll have you know that I could break somebody’s face if I wanted to.”

“Do you like doing it?” He asked, biting his lip. “Do you like the way it feels?”

He didn’t know if he wanted him to or not; he liked the idea of somebody else being like him, liking the power, the grit, the jolt through every bone in his body. However, the idea of those hands, so soft every time their fingers touched, so graceful, so delicate: he didn’t want them to enjoy causing misery.

“I prefer drawing.” Freddie shrugged. “I don’t really like the idea that someone would be hurt because of-”

He glanced up when a hand was put between them, the palm offered in Freddie’s direction; he looked up, bright eyes wide, and smiled at the unknown face. “Hello?” He said softly.

“Good afternoon, darling.” He replied, grinning when Freddie gingerly took his hand and quickly pulled him to his feet. “I was wondering if you might like to come on a walk with me around the grounds.”

Jim narrowed his eyes a little. “We were eating lunch.” He replied curtly.

“Oh, but it looks like you’re all done.” He looked at Freddie’s plate; it looked as though he’d licked it clean. “Only ten minutes of your time, honey.”

“I can do ten minutes.” Freddie smiled at the stranger, his cheeks flushing when an arm was wrapped around his waist. “What was your name?”

“My name? Winnie, darling.” He swept Freddie away from Jim, whose face immediately looked like thunder. “I heard you singing the other evening. I’m one of the music students here.”

Freddie glanced over his shoulder at Jim as they left the room, throwing him an apologetic smile. Jim left the room quickly behind him, not wanting to sit around in his own misery, just knowing he was being laughed at by the others. His thoughts flashed red as he stood with his back to the wall in the dining room, knowing it was happening again, the same cycle was repeating itself, a cycle that would make a fool out of him one day-

_ His eyes were bright and wide as he shyly held out the rose, his cheeks flushed the same beautiful, petal pink; he caught his lip between his teeth and yet his smile was so sweet. “This is for you-” He said softly. _

_ Humiliation burned at the back of his throat as he watched those petals that he’d so delicately straightened out be crumpled under the heel of one of those boots he hated so badly. “Fuck off, faggot.” _

Jim pushed a whole tray of milk jugs onto the floor, just to listen to their shatter and just watch the perfect white be ruined by the mud on the floor. It had been a lonely four years since he’d worked it out, laughed on, bullied; the perfect boys didn’t want someone ruined and the hard ones wouldn’t admit that they liked him even if they indulged in the press of lips to lips by the boathouse after dinner.

_ “I could kiss you for a thousand years-” A gentle finger tucked Jim’s hair from his face as he looked up from under his lashes, lips reddened and smile oh-so-sweet, absorbed in any and every piece of attention that he could absorb.  _

_ “Please-” He whispered, leaning up again, desperate for one more, one more. _

_ “We can’t.” He pulled back, watching the boy’s heart break under the touch of his fingers. “We can’t, you know we can’t.” _

_ “No one has to know.” He begged. _

_ The voice just sighed. “But they will, baby. They will.” _

* * *

His cheek was pressed to the cotton of his pillow, and the tears had just about dried; his head was still spinning and every time he went to sit up he was nearly sick. He groaned and shoved his fists under the pillow, trying to focus on his breathing and not how awful he felt, how much he wanted to curl into a ball and just disappear. The ten minutes had turned into twenty, which turned into thirty, forty, an hour, two, three; he’d been left alone all during the afternoon break, bored and upset and restless, ready to burst when someone kicked him in the knee.

It had been another caning for fighting, and knowing he’d broken the boy’s nose wasn’t even helping him this time; all he was able to focus on was how embarrassed and humiliated he felt for falling for another boy once again. Now it was pain, pain, embarrassment and humiliation.

“Evening, darling!” Freddie sang as he came into the room, holding a bunch of lilies in his hand which he immediately deposited in his water bottle. The sight of him, flushed and excited and happy, only made Jim wince.

Freddie turned around to look at him, his face immediately falling as he scanned over his body, tear tracks down to the weals on the tops of his thighs, visible where he was wearing only boxers. “Don’t.” Jim croaked. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Freddie knelt beside his bed and rested his hand gently on his shoulder. “What happened?” He asked softly. 

“Some dirty fucking faggot decided I wasn’t worth it anymore.” He spat back, turning over roughly. “Get your hands off me. I know what you’ve been doing.”

Freddie’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “It wasn’t like that-” He said quickly.

“Sure it wasn’t.” Jim replied, rolling his eyes even though he knew Freddie couldn’t see. “Who knows where your hands have been?”

“He just played me piano.” He squeaked, breath coming a little faster.

Jim sat up in spite of the agony and looked him up and down. “Is that your code word for your fucking cock?” He grabbed a sweater of Freddie’s that had somehow made it onto his bed, scrunched it up and threw it at him. “I would never have let you near me if I’d known you were a fucking queer.”

“I’m not gay!” Freddie’s voice wobbled dangerously; he scowled at the lilies, feeling like they exposed him as though he were naked in front of Jim. Jim’s eyes followed his and he arched an eyebrow, standing up tall and walking towards him. “I’m not!”

Fuck ever being good, he thought. Fuck ever letting people in, treating them well, trusting them, if you’d always be someone’s second best.

The punch landed hard on Freddie’s jawline, the force rebounding through his arm, and he couldn’t help but shake his fingers out as Freddie fell backwards onto the bed.

“Christ, you fucking psycho-” He grabbed ahold of the aching skin, stumbling back towards the door. “Fuck you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise it does genuinely seem like an overreaction but it'll make sense in time I promise


	4. Cashmere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attempt to reconcile, never to be spoken about again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this totally wasn't how I planned this but we vibe

He’d always learned that it was better to be the bully than the bullied; it was better to jump to conclusions and keep himself safe than be caught with sympathies that could destroy any hope of friendships he’d ever had. It was better, he had learned, to call somebody else the names so that he didn’t get called them himself; it was better to ostracise others than to be ostracised himself.

He hadn’t expected people to take sides with Freddie.

It had taken four days for the bruise to heal, four days of guilt and hatred every time he glanced at his own fingers, fingers that had caused so much pain. He’d seen him crying in the canteen that evening, gently tucked under Winnie’s arm as the boy had stroked his hair to soothe him; he’d seen the scowls they both sent his way when he dared to stand to retrieve the salt. Freddie had never overstepped the invisible line down the centre of their room, completing his homework on his bed or the floor or outside the room altogether, his desk left bare on Jim’s side of the room; Jim shrank from his stare every time he crossed over the line to retrieve clothes from his wardrobe.

Jim watched intensely as he flicked a few pages in his book, very carefully never meeting eyes with the boy across the room; Freddie reached under his pillow and retrieved a packet that crinkled in the silent room, and tore upon the corner.

He pulled out something long, red, and covered in sugar, and Jim couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow. “What are you eating?” He asked quietly.

Freddie chewed contemplatively for a few moments, looking as though he was considering if Jim’s question was worth even giving an answer to. “Fizzy laces.” He replied after a while, moving the packet to the side of the bed away from Jim. 

“Where did you get them from?” He asked curiously. “I haven’t seen them around here.”

“Winnie went to the Co-op and bought them for me.” He said proudly, a little too quick. “Because I haven’t been able to eat anything chewy because my jaw hurt so bad.”

Jim winced a little. “Listen, about that-”

“I’m not interested!” Freddie announced, putting his book down. “You’re just mean and a bully, that’s what everyone says. That’s why nobody wants to hang out with you.” He crossed his arms. “You’re here for reform, because you’re not normal.”

The words stung, but they stung more coming from his lips; it hurt to hear Freddie denounce him just as everybody else had. He stayed quiet for a moment and sat heavily on the end of his bed, scuffing his shoe. “Can I tell you something?” He asked quietly.

Freddie noticed the softening of his tone and immediately felt bad. He’d been trying to stand up for himself, just as all the others had said that he should, but being cruel felt strange and unnatural; he didn’t like the fact that he’d caused the sad downturns at the corners of his lips. “Yeah.” He sat up and hugged his knees.

Jim opened his mouth to say something, shut it tight, and settled for a question instead. “Do you think it’s wrong to be gay?” He asked eventually.

“Gay?” Freddie repeated, his cheeks colouring; he hated the sound of the word and the feelings, sounds, images he associated with it. “I- I mean, I don’t think it’s wrong, per say. I know people think it’s a sin, I suppose- I guess it’s just how some people live.” He shrugged. “Why?”

“When I was in Ireland, it was like the worst thing you could be. People wouldn’t even come near you if they thought there was something about you that could make them gay. People used to hate the way I walked and I spoke because they used to say that I’d make them gay. I mean-” His cheeks flushed and he backtracked quickly. “I’m definitely not gay, I’ve got my eye on this girl, actually, but they all just assumed I was because they said that I looked too- too feminine when I walked.”

“I mean, I think I was more offended by the fact that you punched me in the face than the fact that you called me a faggot.” Freddie shrugged. “I went to a school where you were a faggot for playing the piano, so this is heaven in comparison.”

“I- I am sorry about that, you know.” He said quietly. “I thought that you’d decided I wasn’t good enough.”

“You made your feelings clear enough.” Freddie muttered.

“I’ll make it up to you.” He blurted out suddenly, his cheeks reddening further. 

Freddie arched an eyebrow, but his pleased smile told Jim that he’d said the right thing. “For punching me and calling me a faggot? You’ll be making it up to me for a long time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His nod was a little too eager. “It’s fine, honestly, I’ll make it up to you. Anything you want, I’ll do it.”

“Oh, I feel spoiled!” Freddie smiled. “You can start by locking your alarm clock up somewhere I can’t hear it.”

“But we both get up at the same time?” He asked curiously.

“Yes, darling, and I don’t need the first thing I wake up to to be god-awful screaming.” Freddie lay back on his bed. “And you can get me tea when you get yourself coffee.”

“Okay, sure.” He agreed, replacing his shoes with soft cotton socks. “Starting tomorrow morning?”

Freddie yawned and stretched out his arms overhead. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

If he forgave, he was in control; he couldn’t control his own anger, feelings of fear and disappointment that he didn’t want to live with. By forgiving, he was in control of everyone’s feelings, and he knew there would be no resentment harboured against him-

But it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t wake, covered in his own sweat, shaking, crying his eyes out; it didn’t mean that screams wouldn’t catch in his throat, and it didn’t mean that they wouldn’t escape in panicked, frightened sobs. It didn’t mean his brain wouldn’t torture him with images that he worked every day to forget-

_ Please! Please, please- keripeyaa mujh chot met kero, please- _

“Freddie?” Jim rubbed his eyes roughly, surprised when he was met by total darkness. Most nights, Freddie kept a crack in the curtains, a soft beam of moonlight that fell over parted lips- he associated the boy with starlight, just as he associated him with sugar; darkness didn’t fit the pattern. “Hey, Freddie-”

The boy was crying, his blanket covering his face, all bunched up between delicate fingers. Jim remembered how he himself had cried that first night they’d been together, the lovely smile that had soothed him like a balm- he couldn’t imagine leaving him in that way, not when he’d been so calm and caring. 

“Freddie-” Jim stood up and padded across the room, gently resting his hand on his shoulder-blades and sighing when the boy flinched away from him. “Hey, you’re alright, it’s only me.”

“Please-” He whimpered softly. “Don’t, don’t-”

“Don’t what, sweetheart?” He knelt beside his bed and frowned; neither noticed if a pet name slipped into the cold night air.

“Don’t hurt me.” He whispered desperately. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Freddie.” He promised, gently rubbing circles on his back. “I told you, no one’s going to hurt you when I’m around.”

He twisted and gripped onto Jim’s top, tears still dripping down his cheeks. “Winnie, he kissed me, it’s true.” He hiccuped, panicked. “I- I liked it, you were right-”

“Hey-” Jim sat up on the bed next to him and pulled him close. “Freddie, I don’t really care. I don’t mind if you like guys.”

“But you- you hit me, because-”

“I hit you because I’m fucking broken and I can’t control myself. It wasn’t anything to do with you.” He murmured soothingly. “I don’t care, honestly, if you- it’s your life.”

He felt Freddie’s frightened breathing slowing just a little and smiled. “Scooch over, will you?” He murmured, shivering just a little. “It’s freezing in here.”

Freddie moved over in the bed, looking up in confusion when Jim pulled the blanket over him and laid beside him. “What?” He asked quietly.

“You were nice to me.” He mumbled, idly playing with strands of inky black hair. “I’m repaying the favour. You need to sleep.”

Freddie’s cheeks stained scarlet but he lay down obligingly, close enough for those gentle fingers to keep up their gentle rhythm in his hair. “Why are you doing this?” He asked quietly.

“Just don’t tell anybody.” He said quietly, resting his cheek on the softness of Freddie’s blanket and then propping him up on one elbow again. He grabbed it and handed it to the boy, watching the worried-wonder look blossom over his face. “Don’t you need this?”

“I’m trying not to.” He mumbled, but he wrapped his arms around it and snuggled into it all the same. He felt odd, still on edge, though the fingers rubbing circles on his shoulders were comforting and the familiarity of his blanket made him feel warm once again. 

“Oh, bullshit. We all need soft things.” Jim’s fingers went back to his hair, almost drunk on sleep, and Freddie bit his lip shyly. “I like to cuddle.”

“I don’t usually.” Freddie mumbled.

“Well, that’s your loss.” He shrugged with a grin. “Do you not like it?”

Freddie reached up to touch his hand when it moved from his hair, gently guiding it back. “I like it.”

“I thought so.” He grinned triumphantly and rested his head on his pillow again. “It’s cold in here.” He repeated, not caring if he was being obvious. 

“You can stay, if you’d like.” Freddie replied, voice barely a whisper, though he was smiling.

Though if they woke up, lips to collarbones, noses in unruly hair, untangled themselves and then pretended nothing ever happened- they didn’t need to think about what it meant.


	5. Hot Coffee and Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this chapter in MAY what is wrong with me I'm sorry kiddos thanks for being patient
> 
> \- p.s. I promise I genuinely don't abandon anything permanently!

The fury was hot in his veins as he stood up, slamming his hands on the table; he had an almost physical ache in his hands, a desire to put his hands around that kid’s throat and punch him until he was blue in the face-

Freddie rested the palm of his hand on Jim’s elbow, the most gentle, softest touch he could, just enough to get his attention. Usually, once he got into this state, people went straight into restraining him and punishing him for the thoughts in his head, his fury multiplied by the humiliation of welts across the backs of his thighs once again; brutality only ever made him more brutal.

Nobody ever tried to soften him before he struck. 

“Don’t.” Freddie squeezed his arm. “Don’t let them get to you, just give it up.”

He clenched his fists, but he sat down heavily in the chair beside him. “Bastard.” He muttered.

“Watch it.” Freddie whispered. “They want an excuse to cane you.”

He sucked in his lower lip but nodded; Freddie smiled and slid him a muffin from the middle of the table. “Your choice, chocolate or caning.”

It almost felt as though he couldn’t stay angry with anybody when Freddie was next to him; his face broke into a smile and he shook his head. “God, you’re some kind of siren, I’m convinced.” He grabbed the muffin and tore the top off, eating greedily.

“It’s all in the voice, of course.” Freddie winked and laughed. “I’m keeping you out of trouble. The last thing you need is to end up in the headmaster’s office again.”

“Why didn’t you tell them I punched you?” He asked quietly. “It gave you nightmares, and you’re a goody-two-shoes, I would’ve expected you to go running.”

“Because I knew that they’d cane you. I don’t think it’ll help to have you beaten, it’ll just make you resent everyone more. I want you to stop being so hard and soften up a bit.” Freddie shrugged. “Otherwise you’re never going to get soft, are you?”

“Being soft is scary.” He admitted. “I don’t know how to deal with- with anything, I guess, if I can’t use my hands.”

“Is there something that you’re scared of people knowing?” Freddie asked curiously, reaching for more sugar to add to his tea. 

Jim’s cheeks turned scarlet very quickly and he looked away, down at his coffee, and he swallowed down two mouthfuls quickly. “I don’t think so.”

“Liar.” Freddie grinned. “What is it? Have you actually got three nipples, or six toes, or something?”

“Obviously not.” Jim rolled his eyes, but he could tell that Freddie was being playful. “No, it’s nothing, really.”

“You’re the most defensive person I’ve ever met, I don’t believe you in the slightest. You’re hiding something.” He insisted.

“Go on, then. You can start by telling me your biggest secret.” He crossed his eyes.

“I’ve already told you.” Freddie looked left, and then right, and lowered his voice. “I- I think I like guys.”

Jim’s eyes widened; he hadn’t genuinely expected Freddie to be so blunt. “Are you serious?”

“Don’t be a prude. You didn’t have a problem with it last night.” He crossed his arms, looking offended.

“No, no, I didn’t-” He grabbed Freddie’s shoulder when he twisted away from him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just-” He looked around again. “I didn’t expect you to say that in here.”

“Why should I give a shit?” He asked boldly.

“Because people- people aren’t always nice, Freddie.” He said worriedly.

“It’s like an epidemic here.” Freddie chuckled and flopped back in his chair. “Half the guys go with guys. People are calm about it, it’s not like other places.”

Jim looked around, letting out a long breath. “It’s scary.” He admitted after a while.

Freddie’s eyes widened when he realised what he was saying. “Do you mean-”

“I’m surprised it took you so long to figure it out.” He mumbled. “I know, I’m ridiculous, I know.”

“You’re not ridiculous.” Freddie’s heart beat hard in his chest and he looked around once more, his hands shaking as he made the decision to just try it, to just do it, to just give it a go-

He cupped Jim’s cheek in his palm and pressed the most gentle, tentative kiss to his lips. It lasted only moments before he pulled away and looked at him, eyes wide, almost unable to believe that he had really done it.

“Do you..?” Jim trailed off, his cheeks scarlet, but there was a softness in his face that Freddie had never seen before. 

It was the softness of love.

“Yes.” Freddie said immediately, clutching onto his hand. 

Jim held onto his shoulder and pulled him into another kiss, equally as gentle, and he smiled into it when Freddie reached up, the pads of his fingers gentle as they touched his wrist. It felt like something he hadn’t experienced for a long while, something gentle, loving, caring, as vulnerable and as happy as a child again in that moment.

If somebody wolf-whistled, and he gestured in that direction, then for once they just laughed - for once, Freddie fended away the bad, and swallowed him all in the good.

* * *

“Going from nearly punching me to this was a nice surprise.” Freddie lounged with his head in Jim’s lap, smiling when he threaded his fingers through his hair. “I told you you could be gentle.”

“I still don’t think I’m gentle.” He replied, taking a little strand of his hair and threading it together in a braid. “If somebody called you a faggot I’d fucking kill them.”

Freddie rolled his eyes playfully and leaned up to press a kiss to his lips. “Do I think I want you to get whipped for my sake?”

“I don’t want people saying that shit to you. Or me, for that matter.” He insisted. “That’s why I was going to hit you. That’s why I did. I didn’t want- I didn’t want people to associate me with that shit.” He paused. “And I care about you. I don’t want them to do it to you, either.”

“Shush, sweetie.” Freddie knelt up beside him. “It’s not nice, and I don’t pretend I like it, but people aren’t like that here. We kissed in the fucking dining hall and people just wolf whistled at us. They’re not going to start denouncing you as a faggot.”

“But what-” He started, but Freddie persisted.

“I’m not saying you can’t tell them to fuck off, darling. I’m not saying you can’t call them all the names under the sun, because you can. But as soon as you hit them, they win, because then they can run to the headmaster and get you lashed. And you know that bastard is going to believe them over you, any day.” He said seriously. “Because he just assumes that you’re going to lie to him to save your ass.”

“My ass isn’t even worth saving.” He smiled wryly. “I think it’s made more of scars than skin.”

“Do you ever do anything to help heal them? Put oil on them, or something?” He asked softly, sitting in front of Jim and taking his hand gently. 

“I know you think this school is a league above the rest, but if I went anywhere near my ass and thighs with oil, I’d never hear the end of it.” He shook his head, though he was beginning to smile; Freddie’s determination to make everything right made his heart feel warm.

He had been so used to being held at arm’s length from everybody, an inconvenience to be fixed; they had treated him coldly, correctional, aggressive if he relapsed into behaviours that had been conditioned from his experience. Now, just with the gentleness of Freddie’s smile, light and soft and sweet, and the way that he treated him as a human again - he couldn’t help it if he softened.

Everyone had criticised him for his hardness, as though that would make him soft: they didn’t understand that criticising him for his hardness was almost the same as criticising him for the very sense of self he’d created. Nobody had ever tried encouraging his softness before.

“Oh, who cares? No one has to know.” Freddie shrugged. “Well, I know, but I think I’m pretty irrelevant in all of this.”

“Don’t call yourself irrelevant.” He said immediately, and then his cheeks coloured a little. “Sorry.”

“You’re so quick.” Freddie chuckled. “I don’t mean irrelevant like that. I just mean that I’m not going to be one of those people who are criticising you just for breathing.”

He looked away shyly and smiled. “I knew what you meant. I just- sometimes my mouth is quicker than my brain, you know?”

“And your fists are even faster.” Freddie chuckled and cupped his cheek, pressing a gentle, chaste kiss to his lips. “Which is why they whip you and send you to bed without any dinner.”

“It’s like something out of a children’s book.” He rolled his eyes, though he was still smiling. “Don’t be like the silly boy with no common sense and the lines on his thighs.”

“Don’t talk yourself down.” Freddie skimmed his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “You’re not silly, and you have common sense. They’ve also just brutalised you.”

Jim paused for a moment and allowed his hands to fall into his lap. “What does that word mean?” He asked quietly.

“Brutalised?” He asked. “Like- they made you like this. They punished your fear with violence, they made you even more frightened and even more resolute that you’d deal with everything yourself. But then it goes too far, and you end up in a cycle of ever-perpetuating violence.”

“Why weren’t you scared of me?” He bit his lip shyly. “Everyone else is. They’re scared of the word ‘correction’.”

“I was fucking terrified of you, but I could tell you were scared of everything.” Freddie said simply. “You couldn’t take me looking at you. It was like- if I looked at you, I watched you for too long, then I’d find out something that you couldn’t bear me to know.”

“I mean, I wasn’t wrong. You did.” Jim pointed out.

Freddie pulled him down into another kiss, winding his arm around Jim’s neck with a smile. “And did you die?”

Jim rolled his eyes playfully and kissed him back. “No, darling, I didn’t die.”

Freddie’s cheeks flushed scarlet at the nickname and he picked up a pillow, hugging it close to his chest and burying his face in it, only peeking upwards. Jim laughed at the sight of him, winding his arms around him and feeling his heart start to beat faster with the thrill of his body against his own; he gently tugged the pillow away from his face to look over him. “Did I make you blush?”

“Are you serious?” Freddie laughed, covering his face with his hands instead. “Yes, Jim, you made me blush.”

The warmth in his heart felt new, honest, raw; Freddie felt to him like a new toy to be played with, a box he had found the key to, and he was totally enthralled. “It makes you look pretty.”

“Shut up.” Freddie grinned, standing up and reaching into his wardrobe. “Do you want to come swimming with me?”

“Swimming?” He echoed, swallowing nervously. “Freddie, I-”

“Yes or no?” He asked, holding a towel out.

“My thighs look hideous.” He replied quietly.

“And?” Freddie smiled. “I don’t care. I just know that it’s bastard hot in here and I need to cool down.”

“I thought you said you came from India?” He asked as he stood up, taking a towel from Freddie. “I’ll come with you. But I’m only getting undressed if there’s no one there.”

“Okay.” Freddie said happily, grabbing his bag from the wardrobe and then leaning up to press a kiss to Jim’s cheek. “Thank you.”

He wondered just how long it was since a smile on somebody’s face had been caused by him.

He suddenly wondered if he could do it again. 

“No problem.” He grinned. “You do- you really do look pretty when you smile like that.”

Freddie just shook his head, his smile growing wider, and stuck his tongue out at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and comments if you're enjoying this - especially if you're a new face around here (but I also love my regulars - you know who you are!)
> 
> All the love ♡ ♡ ♡
> 
> I WANT TO EMPHASISE THAT FREDDIE IS LITERALLY BEAUTIFUL AND HAVING CROOKED TEETH/NOT BEING CONVENTIONALLY BEAUTIFUL IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING NEGATIVE this is legit just jim’s opinion right now please + thank you


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